And I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues
by WickedGame
Summary: Ficlet, oneshot about a bartender and his infatuation with a patron at the club. DuoHeero


Title: And I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues

Author: WickedGame

Genre: PWP

Pairing: 12 (2x1 sexual pairing)

Rating: R

Warnings: Glossy lemon, lime, foul language, not beta read

Notes: Heero POV.

_Just stare into space_

_Picture my face in your hands_

_Live for each second without hesitation_

_And never forget I'm your man – "And I Guess That's Why They Call It The Blues" by Elton John_

_Well I'm not paralyzed _

_But, I seem to be struck by you _

_I want to make you move _

_Because you're standing still _

_If your body matches _

_What your eyes can do _

_You'll probably move right through _

_Me on my way to you – "Paralyzer" by Finger Eleven_

Mint, cane sugar, lime juice, all muddled to a rough paste. A shot of soda water, followed by enough rum to fill a collins glass almost to the brim. I slide on a lime wedge and a mint leaf and stick a long, red straw into the top of it.

The girl smiles and slides two dollars my way. I don't smile back and she turns her nose up at me as she leaves the bar.

How many times do I have to glare at these women before they get the picture that I'm not the bartender that will take them into the bathroom and fuck them senseless?

The pitcher comes out from the mini fridge beneath me. The red punch goes into the wine glass. A slice of pineapple is floated on top and a sugar-dusted orange wedge is perched on the rim.

The man hands the glass to the girl behind him and she gives him a winning smile. He hands me a large bill and tells me to keep the change. I will, although I know he only did it to insure he'd get laid tonight.

I don't know why I chose to be a bartender, of all things. I think it was just because I passed the door to this place and saw they were looking for a bartender. I lied and told them I knew a bit about bartending. I didn't. I just learned quickly how to follow the lead of the other bartenders. It wasn't hard. Now I'm better than them and bring in more tips. Chris, one of my co-workers, says it's because of my blue eyes. I think he was trying to get into my pants.

There is only one major benefit to working here, and that is my Friday nights. Friday nights are not only the busiest night, but it's the night _he_ shows up, and that makes this whole job worthwhile sometimes. He's sexy, confident, and can drink like a fish. And through it all, he can still dance until the dance floor is nearly empty.

He orders kamikazes. One by one, lining them up. I always keep track, in the off chance he asks me how many he's had. I know he takes a taxi here and a taxi home; sometimes he's alone, sometimes he's not. I know he doesn't come here looking to get laid because there have been nights when he's shoved people away for getting too close.

Not that I blame them. He's the kind of person people are drawn to. Charismatic, that's the word for it. He's charismatic, and even though I want him badly I don't know what in the hell I could have to offer him. I don't know how good of a kisser I am, and my experience in the bedroom is minimal. I have messy hair that never does what I tell it too and my face is angular, in a way. An ex-girlfriend of mine told me that I was scary. No wonder she was the last girlfriend I had.

It doesn't matter, not really. I don't know his name, and he doesn't know mine. Our relationship consists mainly of exchanging alcoholic goods for money. We've shared a short conversation once, maybe twice but never more than that. I was as off his radar as the people he pushed away, and since I don't know what I could have that would appeal to him I guess that's all right.

If only my dick would listen to me. If only I didn't watch him constantly even as I rub bar glasses dry. If only I didn't drop a highball when I realized he was looking straight back at me.

I hate to call it a contest of wills. I loathe to call it a staring contest. But it seems to me that that's what it is, because neither of us moved from where we'd locked eyes. I'm still drying glasses and he's still leaning against a railing on the dance floor, rolling his hips like he's in bed and thrusting himself into a willing body. But those eyes, dark and thickly-lashed, are staring right at me and his tongue is moistening his lips, and oh god I want a cold shower and I want it now.

Scratch that. I want him now, and I can't move. I can't think. Why is he staring at me? And dear lord, who makes pants that tight? So tight that I don't think I could slip my hand inside of them and rub his…

Rub the glass. Set it down. Ignore the girl in front of you asking for a cock-sucking cowboy and only think about how you wish he was dressed as a cowboy and he was sucking your cock.

Can a look burn? Can staring cut a hole into you? Why can't I move? Why doesn't he move?

I break the stare. I have to. I can't handle it any more.

"I need to go," I tell Chris, whose dropped jaw is amusing but not pertinent.

"F-fine. More tips for me.," he shrugs, mentally counting how many bartenders there are to fill in for me.

"I'll see you Monday," I tell him, and then I'm heading to the back.

Back to safety: back to a place where jackets and backpacks live. It smells like top ramen and split soda back here, and I curse as I realize that my jacket is buried in the bottom of a pile, and stuck beneath a motorcycle helmet. I tug on my jacket, willing it to come loose. I don't know why I'm not just lifting everything off that's on top of it.

Slim, sweaty arms come around me as I come up with my jacket. I don't need a roadmap to tell me where I am or who's behind me.

"You lose," he whispers in my ear as he sucks one of my lobes into my mouth. The touch of his tongue on my skin goes straight to my groin, goes down deep inside of me and pulls.

"Why the hell are you doing this to me?" I ask, wishing that I was more eloquent and could ask another question.

"It's those blue eyes. They get me every time."

He's strong. Not as strong as me, but strong enough to tug me to the back of the parking lot: strong enough to push me against my car and shove his tongue into my mouth. I don't care that our teeth are clicking together, and I don't care that anyone can see us out here. I do care how he knows which car is mine but I don't care to ask him when his tongue is licking behind my teeth and his hand is kneading the front of my jeans.

We have to breathe, and so I let his lips go, let his mouth attack my neck. Hell, I'll even tilt my head back to let him get to it better.

"My car," I say, panting. I never was good with words.

"Watched you leave one night. Saw which one it was," he's saying, slightly muffled as he sucks on my neck hard enough that I'm sure I will need to wear a turtleneck to work on Monday.

"Ahh," I say, trying to sound confident but failing, as the sound comes out as a hoarse whisper.

His lips come off my throat and he smiles. "What's a guy got to do to get the most gorgeous bartender he's ever seen to take him home?"

"Home?" My mind is reeling and I'm still not even seeing straight.

"My home," he says as he takes one of my hands and rubs it against the crotch of his pants. "I guarantee…there's no place like it."

In the car, in the parking lot, in the elevator, and in the hallway: Duo can hardly keep his hands off me, or his lips. I only knew his name was Duo because he told me in between fast kisses in the parking lot of his apartment building. And now we're at his door and he's fumbling for his keys while pressing me against it.

"Keys work better when your eyes are on them," I finally manage to gasp out. He gives me a look but concentrates on his keys finally, opening his door and pushing me inside.

"No time for tour. Clothes need to come off."

How can he be so sure? How can he be so confident and oh god his clothes are coming off. Now all he's wearing is his long, brown braid and I'm still wearing all my clothes.

"You are hopeless, Heero," he says as he unbuttons my shirt and pushes it down my arms. I help it fall to the ground and once again question my sanity. He only knows my name because I told it to him when he told me mine. It occurs to me that this isn't the best way to build a relationship but my cock won't listen to me. It's too busy begging for attention as Duo strips me the rest of the way.

"Bedroom. Now," he says, and I follow without asking any more questions.

His hands are hot and sweaty on my skin, and his lips are warm and soft. I don't question anything else as he moves over me, eventually moving inside of me. I just hold on, because it's like a roller coaster and by the time it's over I'm seeing stars and screaming his name.

He's lying on top of me, and he's panting. His cock is slick and cooling against my thigh. Semen is dribbling out of my ass and pooling on the black sheets below me. My pubic hairs are going to be tangled and a bitch to wash but I've never been happier. I've really never been happier. And I found that happiness in a bed, with a stranger.

His mouth is trailing kisses along the back of my neck, and down my spine. He rolls off of me, and curls up at my side. I turn over and embrace him, leaving open-mouth kisses all along his shoulder.

There's a question that's burning to be asked. I don't know where I find the words, but I do. "Why me?"

He turns over and I finally get to see how very blue his own eyes are, and how much longer those lashes are up close. He kisses the tip of my nose and lays back down.

"I'm a sucker for those blue, blue eyes," he says with a lazy smile. "I'm a sucker for those perfect lips and that sharp chin."

He turns onto his stomach and smiles at me through his bangs. "I'm just a sucker for you."

-The End-


End file.
